


Heaven and Hell Were Words To Me

by kingsnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dominant Sansa Stark, F/M, Post-Battle Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsnow/pseuds/kingsnow
Summary: "Where will we go?" he'd said, and now she pretends he'd meant for them to run away together. They are different people, in a different life, happy, alive. A stupid thought. The men that came before had ruined her. She'd spent so much time wondering what permanent damage they'd done to her body; she'd underestimated what they had taken from her. They had corrupted everything, even the love she had for her brother.





	Heaven and Hell Were Words To Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first jonsa fic I ever wrote... so right after season 6. I took it down out of self-consciousness... but I think it should be preserved for posterity’s sake.

This had not been her first siege. But despite everything she'd been through, it felt like it. Years ago, Cersei had ordered Illyn Payne to kill them rather than let anyone take them. Sansa would have to light the castle on fire if the Others breached the walls. Better to be dead than to be undead. She had promised Jon.

She can't stop thinking about Cersei. About all the things she'd said, things that had slipped out of Sansa's mind after she saw Jon again after all these years. Her faith had been wavering all these years, it had nearly died in Ramsey's bed, but Jon had given her something to believe in. But he's gone now and even though she's surrounded she feels alone.

Wine makes everything worse.

She wants nothing but her bed but women and children rely on her for morale, just as the men outside rely on Jon. They think of him as more god than king, superhuman. She had sung hymns and held other women's babies in her arms. The women she doted on in her chambers were not high ladies like they had been at the Blackwater. They were commoners, the wives and daughters of millwrights and masons. She liked them better.

A child had asked her if she was the Queen. 'No,' she had said gently, leaning down to kiss the little girl on the forehead and the child had reached out to touch her long red hair in wonder. She remembered what Jon had said – that his subjects called her a shewolf.

She imagines herself not as a girl but as a wolf, running wild through the battle with her brother. In a different world she would not leave his side.

No, no. In a different world she would be his Queen.

While he was gone, she had let herself fall in love again. What was it that Cersei had said about love? She can't remember the exact wording. Something about how love made you weak.

She lets herself love him tonight. She doesn't think about why or what laws of nature they're breaking. The world is ending; the Gods would be able to punish her soon enough.

By the time the siege breaks, she has not slept in two nights. Her teeth chatter, and she notices she is freezing. She had sent her maids to bed, but one sees her shivering, and insists upon drawing her a bath. Sansa doesn't want to refuse, but even if she did, her handmaiden is just waiting to get back to normal. And she understands, because it feels like she has been at war her entire life.

Jon comes to her mind again. No word yet, but she wouldn't sleep until he was by her side.

"Where will we go?" he'd said, and now she pretends he'd meant for them to run away together. They are different people, in a different life, happy, alive. A stupid thought. The men that came before had ruined her. She'd spent so much time wondering what permanent damage they'd done to her body; she'd underestimated what they had taken from her. They had corrupted everything, even the love she had for her brother.

At first, she had been the one to initiate contact. She gripped his hand under the table, or grabbed his arm for support. It had just been instinctual, automatic. Habitual. Though, how could the two of them have any habits? She didn't think about what it meant until he started to touch her back. It had felt like finding a lost lover, one she'd never had.

She pulls off her shift and slides into the water, hot from the spring that flowed beneath the castle. She lays her head against the edge of the tub and closes her eyes. She wants to rest, but the war is not over, it has hardly begun, nothing has changed except they will live to see another day. She's not safe, but then, when was the last time she felt safe in her own body?

She hears footsteps, and she opens her eyes and Jon stands in front of her. It's been a week since she's seen him. He left clean, whispering goodbye in her ear and touching his lips to her cheek. He has yet to take off all of his armour. His sword is at his side. He is covered in blood and dirt. He has come home.

Sansa had sworn she wouldn't give pieces of herself away like this anymore. But when the sound of battle cries and metal on flesh had bled into the castle, she had imagined their children playing in the courtyard, his hand in hers, proclamations of love and promises of devotion, I did it for you. Impossible little vignettes had kept her nerves at bay as she imagined herself dead and then brought back to life as wight. The fact that neither of them were dead didn't mean it was possible now.

"My King," she says. She makes no effort to get up. She is naked, submerged in hot water, and though he cannot see everything, he sees more than he ever has.

"The door was unlatched," Jon says, "I did not realize you were bathing."

He turns his back and makes to leave, and she realizes she must have known he would rush back to her and only her, that he would find her like this, that she would give herself to him.

"Stay," she says.

He stops as though it was a command. He does not turn around.

"I didn't think you would return this time."

"I didn't either."

"Look at me."

He turns around. It's not enough. She can barely see his face what with the candlelight and the dirt and the blood, just white teeth and dark eyes.

She had rarely pictured him in her mind all of those years they spent apart. Sometimes it was too much just to survive, and imagining her family made pretending harder. When she thought of home she remembered that she was still just a scared little girl. Worse still, when she thought of Jon she felt ashamed of who she had been. When he came to her mind, it had never been him as a man. He had stayed a boy. But even that picture had faded over the years, her memories hazy. She had been scared she wouldn't recognize him when she saw him.

Now she always looks at him too long, too intensely, hoping to commit his face to memory.

"You're hurt."

"Yes."

"Shouldn't you see a maester?"

"Not until I saw you."

She smiles. Gods, she's easy, that's all it takes. She stands up, and his eyes freeze so as to not drift down. Her nipples pebble as soon as they're exposed to the cool winter air.

"Didn't you want to see me?"

His gaze flickers down but it does not linger. He looks at her forehead, and then behind her, and finally into her eyes. She doesn't look away.

He plays at being a gentleman, but she'd watched him nearly kill her husband and she'd seen how it pained him to pull away. The last time she saw him covered in blood and mud. The day he was nothing but dark eyes and fury. He had given her the gift of revenge, and she'd found she had the stomach for it.

She wonders if she will taste revenge on his skin.

She steps out of the tub. She does not reach for her robe.

His hand has been on his sword. But it falls to the ground beside him.

"Come here."

Deep down, he must have known too. There is no shock on his face, only hesitation. But then, their dishonesty has never been in their words, just between them. Lies of omission.

"I should go." His jaw twitches. Under his eyes there are dark circles which bleed into the purple and green bruises on his cheeks.

She doesn't say anything. What can she say? These feelings can't be said out loud, she wouldn't like the way they would sound. They are not the things of songs. They're animalistic. Of course it's wrong. But this is survival. Heroes are the first to die, she wants to whisper into his flesh, and I need you to come back to me.

He doesn't move. His eyes flicker down to her breasts and she steps closer to him and wraps her arms around him. She is soft and clean and he smells of sweat, and the foulness she's learned is the scent of death. She doesn't care. Her hands reach into his hair. It is oily and tangled. She pulls his face closer to hers and rubs her lips against his cheek, his unshaven beard course against her face.

He is tense and still, she burrows her head in his neck and almost kisses him before thinking better of it and bites him instead. His arms come around her suddenly.

It didn't take much for him to give in.

His hands are calloused and rough but his touch is light, the pads of his fingers running down her spine before his hands rest on the small of her back. He rests his head on her shoulder, giving her better access to his neck.

When he had been gone and she was trying to fall asleep, she would wonder if he would fuck her if she let him into her bed. Would he look her in the eye? Would he take her like something to be conquered? She could dream up a thousand happy endings for them, but everything would be easier if he reminded her he was a man and her heart had been foolish. Nobody would write songs about them. This will stay in the candlelight.

Her hands reach under his armour. She runs her fingernails down his back. She wants to leave a mark. He'll wake up covered in bruises from those he killed, but she will give him something to remember too. His hands encircle her waist, but she wants to be closer, she wants something harder. She can't make it through this war believing in fairytales. He had made her weak again, somehow, despite everything…

Her lips finally meet his. He opens his mouth slightly, and breathes in. She takes his lip between her teeth and bites down. He winces, but he just rubs her back, his skin barely touching hers. As though he's mocking her desire for him, avoiding any part of her that aches for his touch. She can feel the mud on his armour mix with the water on her skin. She leans into him. He sighs into her mouth and she bites him again. Damn him for kissing her like she was his sister.

She pulls away. "Make me forget," she commands, her voice harsh and her brow furrowed.

He opens his eyes and just looks at her for a minute, his dark eyes trying to tell her something she can't understand. His gaze says something but she doesn't know what it is. He takes her face in his hand.

Her voice is softer now, "I don't want to think about it now."

He still hesitates. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She spent the siege on her knees, her eyes closed in prayers. Now he drops to his knees and she wonders if he means to pray to her. He buries his head between her thighs. She pushes her hands into his hair and takes a fistful of it. She pulls his hair to bring him back to her mouth.

"Let me tend to you," he says, and she loosens her grip.

His tongue against her feels good and suddenly it's as though she can't stand up. His hands grip her waist tighter now to keep her steady. She's not sure what he's doing but she doesn't mind being worshipped this way. It's a precarious feeling, but she needs to keep standing up no matter how much she wants to fall to the ground. She pulls his head closer to her, not sure if she likes the feeling, but a slave to it nonetheless.

It happens quickly, from out of nowhere, but he's sucking on her and she's crying out and then his lips are on her hers cutting her off.

She's weak, a puddle in his arms, and her mind is blank and her vision is hazy. He keeps kissing her, then her neck, his beard abrasive against her, grounding her to the earth, because everything else is so tender it's as though she's in a dream.

But then she remembers how it was when he was gone. She had no respite. She would close her eyes and he would be right there, saying the words he never said, being the man he could never be. No man could ever be.

"You smell so nice," he says, here and now, his head buried in her hair.

He doesn't seem real. He is something she conjured up as a little girl. He was too sweet. It doesn't matter that she's covered in his blood and dirt and sweat. It's too pure, too innocent, and she needs him to ruin it so she can stop with the stupid daydreams. Maybe she's playing with fire, but unrequited love is its own kind of danger. She wants to know the truth. Love makes you weak.

She pushes him away. She stands naked before him, and she is freezing and covered in a war she did not fight. She wants him to reach for her again. She raises her chin.

"Undress for me."

He gives her a loopy smile and she realizes that he hasn't slept this entire time either. He probably hadn't eaten in days. But he does as she bid, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes stay focused on hers, but she looks down, and takes in his body.

"Get in the bath."

She likes having her orders followed. She can't help but feel safe.

He nods. There is something about his movements that are so unthreatening that something in her softens. She loves him, and here he is, about to be hers.

"Let me tend to you," she says echoing his words. He gives her an amused smile, as if this can't be real, can't be happening.

She crawls into the tub with him.

"I missed you so much," she says. She straddles him to steady herself.

"I missed you too."

He goes to touch her, and though she aches for his touch, pushes his hands away and with fluttering eyelashes says, "let me take care of you."

He relinquishes and leans his head back onto the edge of the tub.

She takes wet soap and rubs it against his chest, tracing the curve of his pectorals. With her other hand she massages him, lathering the soap into his muscles. He has hair on his chest. She never thought she'd like that, but she runs her fingers through it. He was a man.

Her hands move up to his shoulders, soap lubricating her touch. Her hands linger now; she doesn't miss an inch of his marble body. The body she'd ached to touch for months. But it doesn't quite hit the spot.

"Is this helping you relax?" she asks.

"Yes," he says with a lazy smile. But she can feel his cock against her and it's anything but relaxed. A shiver runs through her despite the fact that the water that engulfs them is still warm.

"Good."

Her lips go to his neck. She sucks on his collar bones, brushes her lips softly against him. Like a silly peasant girl who leaves hickeys, marking her claim. Mine. She breathes him in. He lets out little moans under his breathe.

He is looking at her in wonder and she feels momentarily self-conscious. "What?"

"Nothing," he reaches out to take a piece of her hair in his hands and says, "you're just so beautiful." She thinks of the little girl in the siege who'd asked her if she was the Queen.

She turns around and sits in his lap, her back against his chest. They are a mess of limbs and his leg is between both of hers. She squeezes tighter. It is a pleasant sort of misery. She was still wanting. It was better than waiting, but she needs more. She can't help but rub up against him.

She imagines sitting on a throne next to him and her pulse races. He presses his knee into her harder and she lets out a little gasp.

She hasn't touched him yet, and for the first time she reaches out and takes his cock in her hand. He groans. She's never touched a man like this, not really. She's not a virgin, but this is the first time that counts. The others… well… it wasn't like this.

She pushes herself against him again. She isn't getting enough friction. "Please," she says.

"Mmmm?" he mumbles into her neck.

"Take me to bed?"

He lifts her into his arms and brings her to her bed. She lays down on her back and pulls her furs over her, wet skin on clean sheets. She's shivering in the cold room and she wants him on top of her to keep her warm.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

She can tell he wants her. She'd felt it, and she can see it in his eyes. He wants reassurance. Because this is wrong, a part of her brain tells her, and she silences it again.

"I want this – you – so bad," her voice is low and throaty now. She doesn't sound like herself.

He hesitates. He's standing by the bed. As if he's trying to tell her it's not too late. Does he not understand the same desire that runs through him courses through her veins?

"I'm sure. Do you want me to beg?"

His eyebrows raise slightly, and she can tell he likes the idea. She will not indulge him.

He lays down on top of her. He is so much heavier than she thought.

He has a hand on each of her cheeks. His tongue slides against hers. She's never been kissed like this. It's unbearably gentle and she's conscious of his hard cock pressed into her pelvis, and his weight pressed into her. He's heavy on top of her and she's aching. She'd been so close! She wraps her legs around him and rubs herself into him.

And then his tongue is making circles around a nipple and he sucks on it as if he means to inhale her. Gods, the things Jon Snow could do with his tongue. He pushes her legs apart and his fingers into her. Two of them. She moans. It's nice, so nice. They curl inside her. She's so wet they thrust in and out of her easily.

She finally cries out "enough!"

He stops abruptly and looks up at her, "I'm sorry," he says. He is in pain and she is a fool.

He pulls away but she digs her nails into his shoulder. "No… I want you inside of me," she can hear her own desperation in her voice. Oh, had she really thought she was in control?

"Aren't I?" he has the nerve to smile, to laugh, as though this is funny.

"Not your fingers," she says finally, finding it hard to get the words out in between her heavy breaths.

"We…" now he looks pained. Like this is going too far. But she knows he desires her.

"Please."

He's got a look of violent lust in his eyes but he's nothing but humane.

His fingers guide his cock inside her. She's wet, but she's tight too and she cries out when he's inside of her. His face turns from a look of icy passion to a look of grave concern, "are you okay?" he asks.

She nods, "I'm happy." She was. Blissful.

His face relaxes. She bucks her hips up into him.

His lips thrust into her again, "are you sure it doesn't hurt?"

She shakes her head, but it does hurt a little bit. "No," she says, because he knows what Ramsey did to her body and he wouldn't do anything like that. It hurts but it feels good. It's not the same.

She pushes back, forcing his cock inside of her again, deeper.

He relaxes again and he's gentle with her. A patient lover, who kisses her cheek as he enters her, and whose hands caress her sides.

"Is this okay?" he asks, and she breaks.

She moans helplessly. She tenses, she's never felt this before, she is crashing down with him inside her, so when she returns to earth it's like she's coming home too.

He whispers her own name into her flesh.

"Your Grace?" she whispers in his ear as he thrusts into her.

"Mhmmm?"

She wants to say I love you. But she can't. Not yet. "This is where you belong. Here. With me."

That does it for him, he releases into her.

This isn't wrong. No. She dared him to hurt her, but he passed every test. She can think about the rest tomorrow. He is alive and he is in her arms and the siege has broken and they can finally sleep.

Love didn't make her weak after all. The thought of him had gotten her through the worst night.


End file.
